Heroes on the Wall
by Nommy and the Four Food Groups
Summary: I can't help but pity Feliks' admirers - they just don't understand that nothing they give him will ever compare to what he really wants. oneshot.


AN:/  
Just another fanfic that I thought of when I _should_ be working on Lily of the Valley.

EDIT: Some blatant tense errors and awful grammar fixed. ;;

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Feliks doesn't answer when I knock on the door, so I let myself in. He'd never particularly cared if anyone entered his home without his consent - if they want to steal something, they'd just break a window to get in anyhow, and if it were a friend they usually knew where to find him.  
I'm greeted by the hushed blackness of Feliks' house. He never turns on the lights anymore. I suspect it's because it's difficult for him to change lightbulbs on his own, but whenever I ask he dodges the question as swiftly as a swallow. Feliks is an odd person, or at least that's the conclusion I often find myself reaching. He always wears a smile, but the sort of one that looks strained - where the eyebrows don't quite look convincing enough and wrinkles don't form around his eyes.

Of course, I've seen Feliks smile - _really_ smile. In the confines of his room, Feliks is content to hug his legs to his chest and pull you close, his breath tickling your ear as he refers to people's pictures on his walls - relaying the feats of former farm girl Aleksandra Lisowska, pointing to his favourite singers (consisting of David Bowie and Frank Zappa, primarily) and just telling story after story about them and the changes they made in his life. Then, Feliks will look me in the eye, one hand on my shoulder, and he'll say, "You understand, don't you, Matthew?" with such conviction and so seriously that all I can do is nod, and then he'll smile (eyes scrunched and eyebrows raised), tap my nose, and say that I really don't, but "it's the thought that counts, right?"

As I walk through Feliks' barren hallways, I stop to swipe dust off a table. A dying rose lays limply on top of it, a note laid under it. I pluck the note up, but the ink is faded and in a language I don't understand.

After I placed it back, I continued on my way, having to stop sometimes to let my eyes adjust to the (lack of) light. One window at the end of the hallway let trickles of moonlight through, giving me something to walk with. I count the doors in the hallway - bathroom, guest room, guest room, closet, bathroom, Feliks' room - then put my hand on the all-too familiar rounded handle. The brass has finger indentions in it, and I find a grouping of fingers that my hand molds perfectly to with ease.

Before I can find Feliks, I meet with the eyes of Frank Zappa on the wall - his poster is directly across from the door - and shut the door behind me. There's only a faint light, pulsating slightly in the night, but when Feliks turns around and his eyes meet mine, it feels as though the entire room is bathed in a warm glow. An emotion plays with his expression, but it's only fleeting and soon I just see the slight surprise at seeing me this late in the night and the happiness that I _am_ here.

Feliks brushes a strand of hair out of his face. "You're here to see _me, _Matthew?" he asks, his bright eyes emanating a light all their own. I wonder who else I'd be here to see - certainly not his parents (who weren't even here right now) - so I sit down on the bed next to him, passing his closet on the way (which I knew was full of custom made clothing - dresses, suits, everyday wear - and bags that I could never afford in my life and that he didn't buy himself). My hand tousles his hair and we resort to staring out the window, clusters of stars sprinkled against the sky. When I turn, I find that Feliks' expression is unreadable, which unsettles me. Feliks can feel my gaze so he turns, knees pressed to his chest.

His face can't decide on an expression again, so I wait patiently, petting his back. His arms are covered in pandora bracelets with no charms on them and expensive watches, though I couldn't tell the brand. He wears a ring on his pinky, the diamond in the middle catches what little light there is and flashes in my eye every now and then.

Feliks looks up and begins how he usually does. "Do you ever think that, well, I dunno, that you're meant for something else? Do you ever feel... uhem... a _void?_" Feliks says, his accent making it hard to take him seriously.

It's always hard for me to imagine someone like Feliks feeling a void, what with all of his possessions, but I think I know why he felt that way. I feel it too, but I always tell him otherwise. Shakily, I say, "No, Feliks. But haven't we discussed this befor-"

An obnoxious ringtone interrupts me, and I pretend not to be upset. Feliks puts up a finger and, with a faint (fake) smile, answers the phone. "Hey doll, it's Feliks! What'cha need?" He says, his voice dripping with (fake) enthusiasm. He pauses, catches my eye and makes a finger gun with his hand and puts it to his temple, then nods as if the person on the phone can see him. "Sure, I'll see you then! Toodles."

Once he was off the phone, Feliks collapses onto the bed, sending up a puff of feathers. "Uuuugh," He says as he rolls over, burrowing his face into one of his pillows.  
I know better than to bother him about the people on his phone, but I do anyway. "Who was that?"  
His answer is blunt - he assumes that it's obvious, I suppose. "Ivan," he mumbles almost incoherently into the pillow.

Ivan was new (I'd never heard of him), but I don't ask further. When he rolls his face over, his expression tells me that I don't really want to know.  
And as he uses my shoulders to hoist himself up, I think of Ivan and the other people who I don't know that call him all the time. They _like_ Feliks - most people can't help it (even if his voice isn't exactly Celine Dion material and he can be crass and clingy... well, most people thought that Feliks _looked_ good), but they don't know what he really wants.  
And as Feliks' arms wrap around my neck and he pulls himself onto my lap, his mouth brushing across my face, I realize that I do know what Feliks wants. He doesn't care for the jewelry that he's beginning to toss on the floor, nor does he care for the clothing safely packed away in his closet.

And as we begin to kiss (me shutting my eyes because that's what Feliks always tells me to do, to allow myself to be taken to another dimension as he folds his hands into mine and fires erupt behind my eyes), I can't help but pity Feliks' admirers - they just don't understand that nothing they give him will ever compare to what he really wants.

Me.

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AN:/

Just a fic featuring one of my favourite (crack? ...crack) couples (read: one of my favourite pairings).  
I tried out a new writing style for this that's a bit more serious (?) than what I've written so far. ;; ;;  
...lol i never write serious romance sorry for the derp.

Oh, and this fic is based off of one of my favourite songs. Know it? Kudos. 8D  
Okay, now I'll get to updating the fic that I should be, sorry. ;;

-Sweet


End file.
